Paul's PNG Collection

Papua New Guinea 2015

SECTION 3      Mendi - 2015 (cont)

Chapter 2     Stories 

It's Only a Game

Last time I wrote from PNG I talked about ‘The State of Origin ', a series of three games of Rugby League between the two Australian states of Queensland (the Maroons) and New South Wales (The Blues). For days before the first match people start to work themselves up. Pendants are attached to vehicles; crowds gather around impromptu face painters and in spite of the fact that no Papua New Guinean is playing the atmosphere becomes electric.

The night of the first match I was in Wabag , the capital of Enga Province at a small guest house. Enga is marked by the fact that almost all of the people that live here speak the same language. The purity of the language group is protected by land ownership that makes it difficult for anyone to move into the province unless they come to the small town or marry into a clan. Land is fiercely protected and often leads to tribal fighting between clans. A small group of worthies consisting of Government Officers and town notables arrived at the guest house just in time to watch the match but were thwarted by the most perfectly timed power cut. Howls of frustration led to a stampede towards the nearest place with a generator. Josie, the widow who owns the guest-house sat gallantly in the TV diner and shone a torch up towards the ceiling. We talked stilted Tok Pisin until the power returned. She told me of her struggle since her husband died. I asked why her disabled fourteen-year-old daughter moved around by shuffling her bottom across the ground. Did she not have a wheelchair ?

“We got one from a charity, but it is broken.”

I encouraged her to contact the prosthetic department in Moresby to seek help. The game did not seem to hold much weight against the reality of life.

I ended up watching the game on my own, surrounded by kitsch Jesus pictures, when Josie got bored and I felt a little let down. When I watched in Moresby five years ago, I had great fun running out and bantering with the guards every time points were scored and stories abounded about vehicles being wagered, deaths happening in settlements and TVs being hurled into the street. Here in the Highlands, the spiritual home of rugby, the night passed quietly.

The next day I met with the group of people living with HIV. I had envisioned a chummy get together where I would introduce myself, crack a few self-deprecating jokes and generally patronise them before waving them a cheery farewell - the very stuff of capacity building. They were having none of it. I made the mistake of asking how they were finding the training programme that had been made possible by Charlie from Totnes, who had preceded me. This led to warfare with me trying to join in in broken tok pisin, while they argued in tok ples (Engan local language). They started on the President, who had been organizing things without involving them, then they turned on the secretary for no apparent reason. Power plays were made by those who obviously wanted the positions themselves. I felt as though I was at an old-style Labour conference. Eventually, the Engan HIV officer who had earlier left me to it came back to give me a hand. Between us a few homilies and platitudes seemed to calm things down. We had such good fun that we agreed to do it again in three weeks' time . I asked casually who had been an officer on a Board before. No hands went up.

“The good thing about Engans” he said, being an Engan, ‘is that they shoot straight. They say what they think and no-one feels defensive. When it is over they get on with things.”

Sure enough, after meeting we all went for a bite to eat at a Chinese Kai Bar (fast and greasy) and all was chummy again. I started talking about the rugby and we got around to the news that The Mioks (Enga) were to play the Muroks (Mendi) in just two days' time . 

“Is it safe for me to go?”

“Oh no problem, Engans are very friendly people ”.

I knew that things can be lively at sports matches, but a few people told me that it would be fine. When I told a local teacher trainer that I was going to the rugby, he was keen to come. We met as agreed 20 minutes before the start.

“ Oh my wife wants to come and get a few things at the market before we go. “

It is safer for women to go accompanied on PMVs, so there was no option . We spent 30 minutes at the market and eventually got to the ground halfway through the first half. Outside the ground was like an ant's nest with people milling about everywhere. Tickets had to be bought from a policeman in the back of a Tonka. It only cost 5 kina (one pound fifty) so most people could afford to go. It seemed to be more a social event than a sports event, the PNG equivalent of Regency promenading. The wife and small daughter decided they would come with us into their first game. As the crush developed towards the entrance they got scared and left, only to return when the daughter shed tears. Some ten men managed to make getting into the ground a feat of endurance. The narrow pathway to the entrance was made even narrower by them standing on either side creating just enough space for a single small body to squeeze between them. As you pushed your way through the tunnel of bodies you were made to run the gauntlet as one patted you to check for weapons, another grabbed your ticket, a third gave half of it back and the rest generally obstructed your progress. At the end of the ten-meter path you emerged into the arena.

I was expecting a testosterone-fuelled pit of odorous, heaving, masculinity shouting abuse at anyone brave enough to enter the field of play. Instead, what greeted me was a chapel picnic. No concrete stands, just a high grassy bank with ground sloping back from the field for some distance. Women sat on the bank, children ran and chased around, and others stood and watched from higher ground. The sun shone and it felt a pleasant, gentle, Sunday afternoon. 

The match ended up being very exciting . When we arrived the local Mioks were losing 8-6. Driven on by a little pit bull of a man who had the ability to turn his legs into high performance pistons over a few yards they somehow managed to be 24-8 in the lead by halfway through the second half our little man was almost impossible to stop because he was so close to the ground. My hometown Muroks were a dispirited side. Then late in the day the Muroks got an unexpected try, then another, then another. The Muroks finished winning 26-24. 

I waited for the teacher and his wife to collect their daughter and gradually became aware of people around turning into Meerkats , stretching their necks, all turning toward the far end of the pitch. A wave of young men were running towards us weaving among the scattered spectators. Conflicted between self-preservation and a vague sense of duty to protect the wife and child, I stood immobile as the wave passed. I was ushered towards the rear gate. Shots rang out from the other side of the pitch. The upset Mioks supporters were trying to kill their team, and the police were firing in the air. The wave flowed backwards and forwards with the laughing excitement that the young feel in an affray. An old woman told me I should get out of the gate with a look of anguished apology on her face. This was no place for a white man.

Outside the gate and a few meters down the road all was peaceful again. We reflected on how rugby somehow mirrored the old-style tribal fighting, which we thought was part of its appeal to highlanders. Then we wandered into town to get some phone credit. A convoy of Mendi cars ran around the few quiet streets of Wabag , horns blaring.

“When the Morobe Snakes were here a few weeks ago two people were killed, and vehicles were burnt. They have settled compensation now ”.

Last Sunday Mendi were to play the Huli Wigmen from Tari. They are seriously rough people who will fight and maim at the slightest provocation. I asked if it was safe to go. This time I was told not to risk it.

“They often fight. The teams are owned by two politicians.” I decided to do some work instead.

Oh Yes It Is … ….Oh No It Isn't

Living in Port Moresby it was easy to gather enough stories of Sodom and Gomorrah to fuel the fantasy that you were living on the edge of time in a mad max world of chaos. It is interesting to come to live in another part of PNG and view things from a different angle.

Highlanders are generally feared by the coastal people, who are not without their own fighting tendencies, but on the whole , much more sanguine and willing to talk about things than the volatile Highlanders. So, coming to the Highlands was an opportunity to test the stereotypes that had been gratefully accepted by me because it makes a better story. 

I had been surprised by the calm around me during the State of Origin Rugby League games, which I watched in two Provinces. However, I found that it only took a phone call to get the real flavor of the mercurial Highland temperament. It seemed that following the game a policeman drove his police car to a settlement in Goroka, Eastern Highlands, close to the hospital on the edge of town. He might well have been drunk because he lost control of the vehicle and ploughed into a group of people severely injuring many of them. Police or no Police there is only one outcome that can be expected. Youths dragged him from his car and beat him. He died. Next day the upholders of law, order and liberty drove into the settlement and burnt down several houses. This is a familiar pattern of events.

In Hagen, the local politicians, a Minister and top civil servants took to the stage to launch an identity card scheme. Many people do not want the Government knowing too much about their activities and decided to protest. Next day's Headline, ‘Police Fire Shots In Hagen Riot '. The politicians had to evade bottles, rocks and other missiles heading in their direction on the stage. Democracy at work. No doubt about the feelings of that electorate. Last year they burnt down the Provincial Administration Building. A new one is nearly complete .

I was up early in Goroka, the scene of the Police death, to catch the first PMV ( mini bus ) to Lae some five hours drive away on the coast. I got into cheery conversation with two men who were keen that I should join them on their friend's bus, which was to be the first at the deserted bus site. The market on the opposite side of the road began to fill with drowsy vendors dragging their tired bodies and trade bundles into the new morning. As they established their sites, all kinds of other people started to fill the spaces between the tables, boxes and heaps of food. A pig, grown fat on the detritus of the market, wandered freely. As we chatted a group of young men formed opposite us on the other side of the road. The young men were shabbily dressed and had a way of standing and fixing their look on people that made you wary. What really marked them out was a young heavily bearded, diminutive figure in a brightly coloured Highland beanie. He was also an amputee with a peg leg fashioned out of what looked like gash wood. My companions stiffened a little. The younger of them stepped forward one pace and stretched his right arm into the air.

“ Mornin Bosspela man!”

Bosspela man acknowledged the greeting with an expressionless face. We continued to talk with our eyes on the unsettling group. 

“He is the Boss of Ericu ”, the area around Lae Bus station and market. 

“He is a rascol ? ” He nodded.

“He was shot by the Police. They come up here and sleep with lots of women and get drunk, then they go back down to Lae next morning.” He was disapproving of their morals and the risks they took.

Within a few minutes there was movement in the group. A local PMV had been signalled to stop. I could see the peg leg under the bus – it disappeared up into the bus. I watched the bus move off in the opposite direction to Lae. We were not sorry to see them go.

Another few minutes and the same blue PMV pulled to a stop in front of us. The door slid open and there was the King of Ericu stretched out on a seat with his entourage scattered around the bus. An older man addressed me in a gruff, commanding tone.

“Lae”

“No thank you, I am waiting for someone.” I greeted the King and he smiled a greeting back to me.

The older man was not taking no for answer,

“You get in.”

“ Thanks, but I am waiting for a friend.” My mind was already imagining the scene as the unsuspecting white man was driven off to a secluded place.

He tried a few more times and then slammed the door shut. I was pleased when the first bus turned up and I took my seat.

Later that day I arrived at the bus station in Lae at the very seat of the King of Ericu . I had been told to make my way to a supermarket that I was assured was close by. The only thing I knew about Lae was that it is a risky place. Worse than Moresby, some said. I asked a man who was getting off the bus if he knew the way to Food Mart. He said he did, but walked on too fast for me follow. Four loud and boisterous young men stood in front of the door badgering people as they got off the bus. When in doubt give a cheery greeting. They gave me a polite greeting in reply. I walked on quickly and picked another older man sheltering from the drizzle. 

“Do you know where FoodMart is?”

“Yes, but you must take a bus, it is too far to walk.” My host had not mentioned this. It was not close. Another poorly dressed young man approached. He had sat behind me on the bus. He offered to show me the way. I followed him warily across a pedestrian bridge, a prime ambush site. We sat on a bus and after ten minutes he got off the bus and pointed to a large supermarket.

“Do you live here?”

“No, I live back at Ericu market.”

The young man had travelled across town to make sure I got safely to my destination. I happily gave him the bus fare + to get home. 

In fact, within hours I was finding that the fearsome reputation of Lae was exaggerated. I could walk the streets and found that people were as cheerily friendly as in many other places. I started to hear people I met telling me that Lae was not as bad as people said, until something goes wrong that is.

When I met my HIV group I mentioned to one that I had had a lucky escape in Goroka. I described Bosspela man and he smiled. 

“Oh yes everyone knows him, he helps a lot of people.”

“Isn't he a rascol ?”

“He used to be but now he does a lot of good work.”

Give dog a bad name? But good news does not sell newspapers, does it?

The Wabag Show – How I Survived An Assassination Attempt By The Governor of Enga.

It is the time of year for the Highland Cultural Shows. The biggest and most attractive for tourists are the Hagen and Goroka shows, but I prefer the less developed and visited Wabag show, which I first visited in 1999. 

The cultural shows are seen now as a traditional activity in PNG. They take place every year, attracting sing-sing groups from all over PNG to showcase their cultural dances and bilas (costume) over two or three days. The local populations see these events rather like our past generations saw the fair coming to town. Everyone from all over the Province heads for town, whether or not they have the K5 (just over a pound) to go into the show ground. In fact the cultural shows are the invention of the early Australian Colonial Kiaps (District Administrators). Someone had the imaginative idea that they should harness the tribal pride that lay behind tribal fighting and attach it to more positive ends. They invited tribes and clans to meet to dance and sing together once each year. Some 50+ years later they are now owned by the PNG people as their own. 

The early black and white photos show groups in basic bush material costume. Now the bilas is gaudy, the faces garishly painted and the head-dresses towering arrangements of the feathers of exotic birds, handed down from generation to generation and stored carefully in tubes; the greatest invention for the aficionado being the introduction of the mothball.

But hold, I race too fast towards the entrance. The story starts a few days earlier in the more remote station town of Kompiam . I was on a mission to visit some of the Districts of Enga Province to see for myself what the HIV self-help groups were doing. I was to travel from Wabag on one of the local four-wheel drive pick-ups than run backwards and forwards every day. Mendai, was obviously very excited that I was to visit his home and sent texts every few hours to confirm arrangements. He said that he would escort me from Wabag on the 3-hour drive (due to road conditions rather than distance). I told him that it would be fine for me to travel independently to save him the cost of the trip to town. I would leave on Tuesday. 

On Monday I received a text from Mendai . 

‘Where are you, I am in town?'

I arranged to meet him and walked into town from my guesthouse on the hill. He introduced me to a middle-aged man who was the Local Level Government Deputy President ( roughly equivalent to vice chair of the District Council). Mendai announced that he had come to pick me up. I prevaricated and apologised that I was not due to leave until the next day. Disappointment was obvious, if muted. After a while I realized that there was no real reason to delay and said that I would get my things and meet them. I rushed to the guest house, all through town up the steep hill and into my room. About an hour later I breathlessly greeted them in town, to be told that ‘the Deputy' had gone to do something for the LLG president. Not only that, but, as I later realised, the vehicle would pass close to my guest house on the way. We chatted for another hour, enlivened by the very public arrest of a young man and agitated girlfriend while punches rained down him from opportunists as he was marched to the police station. Eventuall, we left, only to stop at a rundown fuel station, where we had to wait for another hour for the owner to arrive to approve the official fuel voucher. It started to rain, a bad sign for the tee-shirted young men and women on the back of the pick-up. As we proceeded , I understood that I had only just managed not to offend protocols that demand that people on official business should be accompanied by the receiving officials. This is part of a cultural requirement that you are responsible for the safety of your visitor, until s/he has left your ples . From this moment on we all referred to our driver as ‘Deputy '. It felt like the wild west, especially as we left town on the rocky road winding around the mountains.

As the light fell to gloom, we finally arrived in the Station of Kompiam . Stations are out post settlements, originally the administrative centres set up by the tough Aussie Kiaps in the long distant past. Now they house the officials, local hospital and schools. The officials rarely come, preferring to stay in Wabag . It could be walked around in 15 minutes. I was immediately shown to my room in a large permanent building without amenities. Before I could settle, I had to meet Mama, brothers, sisters (not necessarily blood brothers and sisters) and walk the bounds of the parish. I was interested to know what had happened to father. Mendai pointed to the large kunai house (woven bush material walls and grass roof) with several planks of wood indicating recent repairs. It had already been established that it was Mama's home.

“Father is in the back room. We lock him in.” I was a little shocked. Was he an embarrassment to the white man? He felt the need to explain more.

“My father is not very old , about in his sixties and he used to be a carpenter. He was a strong man. But he has problems now and my mother can't look after him.” 

I fought back the desire to protest and heard more.

“When he is allowed to come out, he shouts at people and sometimes gets violent. He walks off and we can't find him. People come and fetch us and we are worried for his safety. We sometimes find him by the river. So, we have to lock him up. Sometimes, he tries to get out and kicks through the wall.” He points to the repairs. “Now he has started going up through the roof and he won't wear any clothes. We found him naked by the river last week and worry he might fall in.”

“ We look after him well and bring him out when we can look after him, but it is difficult. He sleeps most of the time.”

I asked if they had been able to get some help or advice?

“We got some tablets from the doctor, but he won't take them, he spits them out. He eats very little food and thinks the water is poisoned. He only drinks coke.”

It was like a scene from Father Ted. The old irascible, uncontrollable priest locked in the back bedroom. It pointed out the very real problem of dealing with mental health problems in a place with no services and little understanding or advice. Mendai told me that the only place that looks after people is in Moresby and it is too expensive to get there and pay the fees. Maybe his brother in Moresby could at least get some advice from them.

The next day we visited the hospital, run by the Baptists and much appreciated by the remote communities. In Enga the medical facilities are largely run by the faith organisations to a high standard. This small hospital had several older ex-pat doctors who had been there for many years.

Market day came at the end of my visit and people descended upon the town in large numbers from the outlying Districts. Kompiam is a metropolis to some who live in seriously remote places and still dress in jackets and arse grass. In most Districts throughout PNG medical services do patrols, when they can afford them. Staff walk for one month to reach remote village communities. Today, I found out that the market is the social gathering place for the area. Everyone talks to everyone else. Contacts are made, deals are done, news is exchanged, ideas are spread. As I was introduced to the police chief, two cars passed through.

“That is the chairman of a landowner's association. He is uneducated, but he speaks very well.”

“What is he here for?”

“They want start mining for gold behind that hill and he is here to talk to the people. I am a landowner in that area, and I was also involved in the survey ”.

Sure enough, a crowd gathered in a big oval shape around the Chairman , as people do anywhere when someone starts to speak, whether it be a preacher, activist, health worker or politician. It is the PNG way of doing business and having a discussion. The Chairman spoke for some time and then ringers (local leaders) spoke in praise of his proposals. They were going to get rich but wanted to be careful because a Chinese company had come and gone with their profits without proper payment to the landowners. Mendai did not seem particularly interested.

“Don't you want to take part in the discussion?” He was somewhat dismissive .

“They think it will happen quickly, but these things take a long time.”

I was left wondering whether they really understood the impact of a mine on their idyllic little town and way of life. In Pogera in the East of the Province lies the biggest gold mine in PNG. It brings hundreds of workers from all over PNG and with them comes the highest rates of HIV, fighting between groups that leads to wider tribal fighting and changes to the social and geographical landscape. But money is money and most do not have as much as they want to live in the modern world.

As I prepared to leave, Mendai's thoughts were turning more towards the show and the entry from Kompiam . He told me of a hunter who had trapped two pythons, which were to be the centre piece of their entry. 

“We are known as the snake eaters in Kompiam . Traditionally people trapped and ate snakes. So, we are taking the snakes and making a drama about little people who used to live here but were chased away. After the show we will mumu the snakes and eat them”

*****************

Friday came at last in Wabag , the day of the show, and I had never seen so many people in Town. Police vehicles toured the streets warning people against drunkenness, fighting, and other forms of sinful behaviour . For some the warning appeared to come too late as they staggered across the road. The town was buzzing with excitement as groups made their way through the town en route to the show, stopping every 50 metres or so to display their dance. 

As I made my way towards the show ground, walled since my first visit, the crowds thickened. I turned to acknowledge a greeting, it was Mendai . We walked on through the crowds. Two young men started to square up to each other and a fight looked likely. Mendai hurried me on,

“They won't hurt you, but rocks quickly get thrown and I don't want you to get hurt.” He was responsible for my safety again.

The programme was carefully organized. Groups had been restricted to Enga Province for the first time to give it a truly Engan flavour. They came from all parts of the province . I had suffered with almost no sleep last night because a youth group had stayed in my guest house and ran around all night. In the morning, I talked to some of them and felt ashamed of the evil I had wished upon them in the early hours. They were excited, gentle souls, many of whom had not stayed in town before. They informed me the time they were to arrive at the showground and spent hours applying make-up, head-dresses and arse grass. One was to be almost naked, they divulged.

Inside, the field was organised into sections. The largest area was the show ground which was to fill up with groups who were to dance all day. In a corner was a stage for local bands. Around the edges were food stalls and displays of traditional crafts from making fire to fibre-matted caps. A traditional wooden bridge was built to allow those who paid to walk across. The few tourists that had arrived were charged K15 (a fiver) to enter the area to poke cameras into the dancers faces and get the shots of a lifetime. They were joined by invited dignitaries. At the edge of the field a covered platform held the High Commissioner of France, with a suitably fashionable wife and stylish teenage son. He was later joined by the British Ambassador, with a more conservative style and sensible family. Everyone at the show had a duty to conform to stereotypes. 

As the day went on the showground filled with dancers. Most were recognizable, by their tradition. Those close to Hela Province borders had the Huli dance and decoration. They make pancake hats from their own hair (Huli Wigmen ) and wear bright red and yellow face make up. Those from close to the Sepik Borders danced with bows and arrows and carried crocodile effigies. Most groups wore traditional Enga costumes with lots of black. Women's groups were much in evidence , many with quite elderly women, unselfconsciously naked to the waist and many without teeth. I worried for their health as they performed their short dances every five minutes or so in Mexican wave of activity that swirled round the field. Some looked weary before lunchtime.

I was reminded again what it was that made these dancers so different from African tribal cultures. I decided that Papua New Guineans are of the earth. Everything about them is solid on the ground. They dance to a solid base beat of the kundu drum. They stamp hard on the ground, lift rhythmically, almost jumping but not leaving the ground or raising their arms. Africans are fire. They leap, dance to cross rhythms, change and innovate movement, they move all parts of their body. 

Eventually, my Kompiam friends entered the ground, but stayed outside the dancing arena. There was an immediate crush around them as a circle six or seven people deep gathered around a man with two pythons draped around his body. Crowd control was difficult as the circle drew closer. It was the first time that I saw a snake used for crowd control. Periodically a snake would be waved at errant children who screamed and rushed backwards and sideways in alarming fashion. A young Israeli tourist, with the slightly arrogant air of a seasoned traveller, sat close to the snake man with his newly acquired Engan girlfriend. I wondered if his seasoned traveling had equipped him with the news that with the girlfriend comes the family who also expect things from you. Eventually they had to leave the mayhem to prepare for the drama of the ‘dwarfs' (their term). 

At this point the Governor of Enga arrived and to his credit, walked into the showground. Spotting a white face, he stopped to talk to me for a while before ascending the steps to the platform, which was soon crowded with ‘fat bellies' wanting to get close to him. Security men stopped the mob creating a crush on the fragile floor. After a long dry spell, the rain started and got steadily heavier. The platform filled even more and worryingly the mob rushed to shelter underneath the platform creating a strange sight of people crushed under the platform and more still gathered around the edge, but still in the rain, as though being close to the dry ones would somehow help. An old woman demanded access to the platform to get out of the rain and on being refused tried to hit the security men with a stick.

It was around this time that the Governor of Enga launched an audacious attempt on my life. As the rain came down a group of Sepik style dancers danced for him by the platform. As a good tourist I felt it my duty to capture the scene. I had the video function on when I suddenly noticed that I was filming the underside of a vehicle. The Governor's P.A. had driven slowly through the crowd with the usual expectation that his subjects would leap from his path. He did not contend with an aging white man who did not hear his approach. He sent me sprawling into the soggy mud with a soft bump from his bull bars. When he realised that he had damaged a white man he was a little perturbed. He called me over to his window, rather than get wet and profusely apologised,

“Can I take you to hospital?” He was joined by the police chief, while the crowd watching from beneath the platform either laughed at the banana skin scene or looked on shocked that a white man could be treated thus.

Having told him that I wanted compensation of pigs and money I made him promise to take our HIV case to the Governor. He dutifully wrote the details onto his smart phone, but I knew he would not want to tell the Governor that he had tried to assassinate a tourist. It took a lot of washing to get the mud from clothes. But I enjoyed the celebrity as people came up to say they were sorry for the incident.

For Mendai , the show did not end well. He felt that the snakes and dwarfs were a stone-cold certainty for a cash prize. Alas the judges did not agree. Cultural pride it may be, but it is still money that talks.

VSO Has Become The Foreign Legion

One of the enjoyable things about VSO has been the fact that you are thrown together with people you would never bother to get to know in England. My prejudices tend to draw me to people fairly like me in the main. When you are away you find yourself spending time with people who are nothing like you or your friends and, strangely, getting to like some of them. Whilst people may seem different, they are on whole fairly well behaved and scrubbed, with nothing to mark them out of the ordinary. I am more used to telling stories of vivid characters from the cultures I enter. However, this time I have met eccentricity in the VSO population that leads me to suspect that VSO has now taken over the place that used to be occupied by the French Foreign Legion; a refuge for people hiding from some danger, hurt or catastrophe in their past.

It actually started in Namibia, when I met a young woman for the first time who within twenty seconds of greeting, was telling me her story of being jilted at the altar and was now making amends by forming a series of dodgy local relationships. I think she is still there and married at last.

My first encounter was in my new home in Mendi. I was told, rather like Kurtz in the Heart of Darkness, that there was a volunteer who had gone native and could only be contacted with the utmost difficulty. There were guarded comments from other volunteers that suggested darkly held secrets that no one outside the family could ever talk about. I was told that she had lost her VSO mobile, but I finally tracked down a new number. I could never get through. I emailed. Eventually, I got a short, but friendly message saying that there were few shops and I should bring bedding. She did not need anything as she was leaving soon. As I talked to other volunteers an increasing number had said that they had not met her in two years.

Before I left Madang I emailed to say I would be arriving on the following Sunday afternoon. She replied that she would leave the keys in the local Lodge. In the event we arrived late in the afternoon, and she was there. If I was unsure who I would meet, there was no need to worry. She was slightly discomforted but perfectly friendly and had gone to the trouble to make up a bed. She let me choose my room and said that she would be gone in a few weeks.

It turned out that my new friend was a woman, only a few years younger than me, from Sheffield. She had an engaging broad Yorkshire accent with strong dialect phrases

“I took it t'er down't road”

I wondered how local people took to her delivery. I soon found that she had not learnt any Tok Pisin and simply talked in Yorkshire English to anyone she met. This seemed to work very well.

As we got to feel more comfortable with each other we talked together more. I heard about her isolation and occasional desperation because she could not get away. Women are not allowed to use local buses by VSO but she ignored that and took the PMV into Hagen, only to find on her last trip that the bus was stopped by angry clansmen who demanded 20 Kina from each passenger to settle a grievance. She had her own stories of sharing the flat with an eccentric Latvian volunteer who stayed in his room except for cooking and bathing. He had left the house one morning to go back to Latvia without a farewell. When she phoned him he said he was in town and could not meet her. She could do what she liked with his food and belongings (another legionnaire). He left with the house key in his pocket and went home to Latvia.

At work, she had done an amazing job. By sheer will power and dogged determination she had established a family support and sexual violence centre at the Mendi Hospital. Against the odds she had made them give her a disused room and cleaned it out herself. By the time I arrived it was a fully functioning centre treating women, abused, raped and beaten. She was always surprised that so few of the women cried in the centre. It seemed that the expectation of abuse was so strong that it became normalised. Many wanted reports that they could take to the police or give to village courts to get compensation. HIV prophylaxis was urgent and many were wounded. She became aware that the threat of violence and compensation was ever present for the nurses who worked in the centre. On one occasion a girl who was treated at the centre had gone with mother on the PMV to Hagen. On the way the girl had a panic attack and mother brought her back claiming that the nurses had caused it with drugs prescribed for the girl. She came in to find the nurses were inserting a saline drip into the girl's arm.

“ Whatare you fixing up t'drip for?”

The nurses knew that the hospital would not protect them from angry, vengeful clan members and threat of having to pay compensation, so if the mother wanted medical treatment, she would get medical treatment.

The violence against women here is so deeply rooted that it comes as no shock to hear distressing stories from any quarter even though laws exist to protect the abused. The lead nurse coordinator in the HIV clinic was wearing a wig when I met her. She did so because her husband had tried to strangle her, held a gun to her head and tore handfuls of hair from head. She left him, got her reports from the police and sued for divorce. In the court the husband shouted abuse at her in front of the passive policemen and magistrate and mounted his defence , which was ‘she is my wife, and I can do with her what I like '. The magistrate passed the only verdict possible. She should go back to live with him until a traditional village court decided on the question of divorce. The whole process is complicated by the fact that the husband's clan pay bride price for the wife, so compensation and social relationships must be considered.

It took some determination and guts for an isolated white woman to stand against this tide of abuse and indifference. So, what is so eccentric about that?

Well, in spite of many years of psychiatric nurse training and work at the Maudsley in London, she did not appear to have much self-awareness. If she did, she ignored it. She formed an obsession for relating to all of the local children through sweets and lollies. Her home coming was like feeding time at the zoo. The house was like a sweet shop with jars of lollies, bubble gum, small chocolates and candies. She spent hours filling small trays with orange juice to freeze into lollies. Boys, girls, naked little ones all flocked to her demanding lollies. She talked at them in Yorkshire English and would come back after ten minutes tired but satisfied. 

She confided in me that at one time an irate mother from the small settlement in the adjoining field had told her not to give any more lollies to the children. It seemed to have little long-term effect on the sales of the sweet shop. She, on the other hand, would eat nothing but fruit and milky drinks.

Before she left, she determined to throw a children's party in the neighboring lodge. She prepared for weeks, buying balloons, sweets, little presents, cakes, jelly and ordering a giant tub of ice-cream. It must have cost more than two hundred pounds.

The day before the party I had to speak to the lodge owners about our flat.

“See you tomorrow.”

I was met by an uncomprehending look. 

“Oh……. we have a bank coming in to use the room. We didn't think she wanted it.”

Undeterred she decided to hold it on the small platform outside of our front door. She would show them ‘Jungle Book' on her computer.

The day arrived, and we awoke to find a child free zone. The usual hoards of children had been whisked away to who knows what family celebration, village stay, church or ceremony. They were not here. Eventually, six wontoks (clan members) turned up, including some who she did not know, Most were older children and teens. They hung around waiting for the party to start and then announced that they had to go to a bride price do. By lunchtime sufficient children from toddlers to bored teenagers had gathered and the fun began. Her approach was to stuff as much sugar and as many e numbers into them as they could manage. It was like being at a Guinness Book of Records attempt. Small children tackled Beano sized portions of ice cream that were re- filled before they had finished. Not one healthy morsel was allowed to pass their lips. They had a great time and the mothers demanded their share as well.

At the end, tired but happy, she surveyed the mountain of food still left. Never mind she could go on feeding and preserving the children for the next week before she left for home. To this day children still greet me thinking that being white skinned means that I have a sweet shop.

I left my generous, saintly, perplexing flat mate to travel around the Highlands and the Port City of Lae to meet my groups. 

First call was Wabag , where I contacted a VSO teacher trainer to see if I could stay for a few days while I did my business. He was reserved but fine with that. I was dropped at his house and he greeted me in a distant, but friendly way. We had a pleasant hour and then he went to bed early. That was almost the last contact we had. In four days he must have spoken less than 50 words to me and came out of his bedroom, like a mouse, only when driven by hunger or when I wasn't there. I quickly realized that I was in the home of a legionnaire. When I could I tried to engage in conversation.

“You've been in Wabag for two years then?'

‘Yes”

“How have you found Wabag ”

“Fine.”

“Is there something wrong? Have I done anything to upset you?”

‘No ”.

Either there were some Asperger tendencies here or I was the butt of serious rudeness. I tried to thank him for allowing me stay on the last evening. Before I had finished my second sentence, he was already in his room.

It was a relief to find a garrulous, but motherly American woman in Goroka to stay with for the next few days. She was generous and interesting company. But this was only a brief R&R away from the front line. Next stop Lae.

I could stay in Lae, but I was slightly apprehensive about arriving by PMV at a busy bus station in a port city with a bad reputation. I asked my volunteer host what I should do.

“You can come to Foodmart just close by and I will meet you there.”

What he did not tell me was that that ‘close by' meant a finding a PMV that would take me on a 15-minute ride to the shopping centre in town. In the event I found that people were friendly and helpful and even the street mangis (youths) returned my cheery greetings. I found the sanctuary of a big supermarket and phoned my host. He promised to be there in fifteen minutes. It was longer and I found out why pretty quickly . My host had struggled about a kilometre or more from his house with quite a restricted walking ability. It turned out that he had suffered a rock-climbing accident when he was 19 years that had left him with all of the features of a stroke – muscle wastage on one side and a jerky, almost uncontrolled gait. He was wonderful. He took no notice at all and lived life to the full. He had already been in Ethiopia, Pakistan and Kenya and was not fazed by Lae. He expected no favours nor concession to his physical needs and was a real inspiration. I found that he walked the kilometre even though there was a bus for about 20p.

It was only when we finally got back to his house that I realised I was back in Legion barracks. I like to think of myself as having a fairly small consumer footprint, but he made me look like Charlie Clore. He owned almost nothing. The bathroom did not have a single bar of soap, toothpaste, toothbrush or anything save a small hand towel on a rail. The kitchen had only enough utensils to stop a man from starving. One small saucepan, a larger, older one for heating water (no kettle) and two plates, one of which he bought from a second-hand shop because I was coming. No washing up liquid etc. Two cups, one a rusting metal mug.

“Would you have a sheet I could put on the bed?”

“No. ”, I slept on the bare mattress, luckily Lae is hot, even at night.

This was a man who really travelled light and needed very little . His household allowance had been spent on a dongle for his computer. He had only one change of clothes with him and single pair of sandals. I heard everything he had done in his life.

By now I was for the first time in my life, feeling conservatively mainstream and rather suburban . I needed a suburban setting to relax in before I flew back to Mendi. I got my peace in Port Moresby, but at a price. I listened to a young Kenyan woman's short life story of a year-long marriage to an abusive ex-Catholic priest who had done unspeakable things which she spoke about in graphic detail. Still, it only took a few hours. I even ended up playing scrabble to divert her.

Now I am back in Mendi and back in my own solitary space, totally free to indulge my own predilections and follow my own strange rituals and habits. I looked into the mirror. Is that the face of a legionnaire I see?

Next       "PNG Contents"       "Paul's Travels" Menux

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